The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1887-08-11

key turned in the lock. Then, and not
till then, the devil that held my tongue
loosed it's hold, and Think must
have raved like mailman for the
wretch fled from me. When 1 could
control myself / knocked humbly
enough at Alice's door, and begged her
to come out and let me explain. But
what is the use in going ONT Twill
end the story quickly. She
had gomez fled in the darkness and
storm Of that winters night. I never
saw Alice again, nor could ! get the
talntest clew as to her whereabouts,
though I searched many weary
months. In vain I tried to see her
grandmother. She would not see me-:
At last l wrote the whole truth to
Lady Harwood; telling ip no measur.
ed terms the contempt felt fot my
cowardly and tinmanly action in not
speaking to Alice of my first marriage:
At last l received d reply from Lady
HARDWOOD saying she had read my let.
ter. and found that l was not quite so
great q sc0undrel as she had at first
supposed me to be; but that I must
cease all attempts to find her grand.
daughter, who she thanked God at
last had found peace. l could not
fathom what she meant, but gave up
all hope and waited. A year or 50
passed then learned from a few lines
in a paper what that stern old WON.
an meant. Alice NARROW, my Alice,
had renounced the world and given
her vast fortune to the church; had
entered the convent L'Enfant Jesus,
and would be known ever afterward
as Sister Cecilia. Scarcely a. year has
passed and she is dead, believing the
worst of me-"
Hugh's head sank on his breast,
and he sat like one stupefed. What
could do; what could I say? Annie
Graham alive! All! if had only been
with him. This terrible story. l felt
stunned as thought of it! At last
said, sorrowfully enough: "Hugh,
what can do?"
Rousing himself with an effort, he
answered: Nothing, John, nothing. u
Then looking at me kindly: "But go
home and rest. You are not strong.
l should not havestold you tonight -
''Hugh," l cried not ashamed of the
tears in my eyes. "Dear old John,''
he said softly. laying his hand on my
shoulder. "Dear old friend, God
bless you; but 60, now, and leave me
alone; believe me, it is the kindest
thing you can do"
sorrowfully Tgathered up my coat
and hat; mechanically l put them on,
then l held out my hand and said:
"Good night" 1900 night, dear
friend; good night and God bless you,
john"
Slowly l found my way out, that
last "God bless you, john" lingering
in my mind. 1t seemed like an eter-
nal farewell, so mournfully was it
spoken. Next morning when called,
l found Hugh's rooms in disorder,
servants running, physicians in charge.
With my heart suddenly grown cold
rushed up to the bed where Hugh lay
dead.
What q moment when I knew that
the glorious young life had fled. Hugh
dead! and l, q miserable sickly man,
living. heard like one in q dream
the servants saying that their master
was won't to take choral to sleep
sometimes. Then l heard the physi-
clan say slowly that it must be an &C.
cldent; he had evidently taken an
overdose and so died; but my dim
eyes had wandered about the room;
the picture had been taken from its
frame, a heap of ashes on the hearth
told what became of it. No, not an
accident; knew better. Oh! fool that
l could not understand last night;
not accident, Hugh, my friend, you
meant it then, when you said: "Good
night, God bless you, john"
Wilson